‘Why haven’t you said anything?’ Markus says to Tove.
Malin shakes her head. ‘They’re a bit odd, my parents.’
Tove breathes out, and Malin realises that the lie has made her feel relief, at the same time as she feels ashamed at not having the bravery, the honesty to come out with the simple truth: that it was Markus who wasn’t welcome.
Why am I lying? Malin thinks.
So as not to disappoint anyone?
Because I’m ashamed at my own parents’ social incompetence?
Because the truth hurts?
‘How strange,’ Hasse says. ‘Who could possibly be more welcome than their own granddaughter and her friend?’
‘It was an old business acquaintance.’
‘Well, never mind,’ Biggan says. ‘Now the two of you can come with us to Are instead. As we suggested in the first place. I don’t mean to criticise Tenerife, but winter is for skiing!’
Malin and Tove are walking home along the well-lit villa-lined streets.
A cognac after the meal makes Malin’s mouth run away with her. Biggan had one, but Hasse didn’t, had to work the next morning. ‘A small martini and a glass of wine. No more than that if I’m going to be wielding a scalpel!’
‘You should have explained how things were to Markus beforehand.’
‘Maybe, but I—’
‘And now you’ve made me lie. You know what I think about that. And Are, have they asked you to go to Are? You could have mentioned that. Who am I really, you—’
‘Mum. Can’t you just be quiet?’
‘Why? I’ve got things I want to say.’
‘But you’re saying such stupid things.’
‘Why haven’t you mentioned Are?’
‘Oh Mum, you know why. When was I supposed to tell you? You’re hardly ever at home. You’re always working.’
No, Malin feels like shouting at Tove. No, you’re wrong, but she stops and thinks. Is it really as bad as that?
They walk on in silence, past Tinnis and the Hotel Ekoxen.
‘Aren’t you going to say anything, Mum?’ Tove asks as they pass the City Mission’s charity shop.
‘They were nice,’ Malin says. ‘Not at all what I imagined.’
‘You imagine so much about people all the time, Mum.’
67
I’m bleeding.
Something is lifting me up, away from the post and down on to a soft, hairy bed.
I’m alive.
My heart is beating.
And the black thing is everywhere, laying cloth, wool on my body and it’s warm and the black thing’s voice, voices, say, ‘He died too soon. But you, you’re going to hang the way it’s supposed to be.’
Then the trees above me, I’m moving through the forest. Am I lying on a sledge? Can I hear the sound of runners over the crust of snow? I’m tired, so tired, and it’s warm.
It’s a real warmth.
It’s in my dream and in wakefulness.
But away from the warmth.
It kills.
And I don’t want to die.
The engine sound again. I’m in a car now.
In the sound of the engine, in its persistent running is a suspicion. That my body has one more chance, that it isn’t yet too late.
I breathe.
Welcome the pain from every battered and smashed body part, the tearing of my bleeding innards.
It is in pain that I exist now. And it will help me survive.
